Cheaper Than Therapy
by XWaltzforVenusX
Summary: If she left right now, he would never have to know. He could go on with his life, his existence, and never be bothered by the fact that she had stood outside his door, pressing herself against the cold wood. RyanTaylor post-season 4.
1. This One's For You

_Just a little one-shot that snuck up at hit me over the head. Also, I'm procrastinating studying for my mid-term tomorrow..._

_For anyone who cares (and because music is my addiction), this was written to __Rogue Wave's__ 'Cheaper Than Therapy' off the__ album 'Asleep at Heaven's Gate'_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Oh, this was such a bad idea.

What was she doing here? There was no way she could _possibly_ be this crazy. She'd been making such progress in therapy. Dr. James had told her - in their last web-cam session – that she was making vast headway in her 'quest to become more independently stable'. Yet here she was, ruining two years of hard work and emotional rehabilitation with one badly thought out plane ride.

Was she really doing this?

The answer was undoubtedly _yes_, because she wasn't just contemplating it; she'd _done_ it. She'd bought the ticket, sat on the almost twelve-hour plane ride, rented the car, drove up here. The scary part was, she couldn't even chalk this up to spontaneity or the heat of the moment. Yes, the coming here could be explained by that, but not how… easy it was to find him.

How easy it was to _stalk_ him.

She knew this was where he was going to school, because it was why they weren't together in the first place. But it was scary, how she knew which dorm he lived in, which diner he frequented for his usual morning coffee, the vendor he bought his turkey and cheese hoagie from every Monday, Wednesday and Friday after his calculus class but before psychology. It was scary, because she didn't know it all because of tedious research, or frantic questioning of random passersby, or even his friends. No, it was information garnered over two long years of infrequent emails from his brother, where little details of his life would slip out. She pretended like she didn't notice when his brother mentioned the name of his dorm, or the nice little garden that was set next to the building where he had most of his classes – the one she was sitting in now. She pretended she didn't write all of these facts down in a little black notebook before shoving it into the bottom of her desk drawer, beneath layers of old school papers and other nonsense.

The same little black notebook she was clutching in her hand right now.

She watched the clock in the middle of the quad until it the time she was waiting for, making her heart race. Standing up, she ducked behind a tree as students began filling the pathways, walking to their next class or their dorms, or wherever they were going. His blonde head, broad shoulders, set expression caught her eye through the crowd, and she trailed him to the vendor, watching him order and pay for his regular – turkey and cheese. She trailed him as he bit greedily into the hoagie, making for another building in the distance, where she knew his next class was. He went inside, and she parked herself on a nearby bench.

For an hour.

She was insane. She must be, to be here, to be watching him - _stalking_ him. Why hadn't therapy worked? _Two years_ and she couldn't just stop herself from getting on that stupid plane? Maybe the saddest part was the impetus for this little visit. It wasn't some grand gesture, some huge happening in her life, that made it absolutely necessary to see him again. It wasn't a crises; she didn't need his help. It wasn't even the resurgence of his name, a common mention in an email from his friends.

It was a boy.

And not _'a boy'_ as in '_a boy she was dating, who she broke up with, and now, inconsolable, she felt compelled to fly six thousand miles to see her old flame'_. No, it was a boy, no more than four years old, blonde and forlorn and rolling a small plastic car along the curb of the Parisian sidewalk. He had looked up at her, blue eyes connecting with hers, and he had given a slight, wary smile before dropping his eyes to the ground again, and she had gone to the airport, bought her ticket, and spent twelve hours staring out the window.

Oh yeah, therapy was totally working.

She waited patiently for an hour, until the familiar sight of his body, his walk, his closed off expression caught her up again, and she followed him to his dorm. Except that he didn't go to his dorm, and she began to panic. He should, logically, be going there next. If his schedule – neatly printed on page two of her little black notebook – was anything to go by, he had two hours before his next class, and he always went back to his dorm. Except that he didn't go to his dorm, he made a sharp left, and she was forced to follow, because, let's face it, it's _her,_ and it's _him_. He went to a coffee shop.

Where he sat down at a booth with a girl.

How had this bit of information eluded her? Why had his brother not said anything? She could excuse her best friend for not knowing – what with her off saving the planet and not at all up to date on the goings on of her California-bound friend. But why had his brother not said anything? Usually he was quick to update her on his best friend's relationship status – although those updates were thankfully few and far between and usually lasting no longer than a month or two at a time. She had to know who this girl was, and why she didn't know about her.

She slipped on her sunglasses.

She chose the booth next to theirs, sitting with her back to them, and her pulse picked up, because he was less than a foot away from her, separated only by a faux-wooden barrier. She listened to their conversation, and it was obvious that this was a first date – a quick '_let's do coffee'_ kind of awkward thing.

She should stop paying Dr. James so much, because the relief was almost painful.

She listened to them make uncomfortable conversation, then hasty goodbyes, and she waited exactly one minute to the second before leaving the diner after him. This time he did go to his dorm, and she waited outside, unable to follow him through the front doors. At least, she waited until a scrawny freshman walked by, and she convinced the boy she had lost her pass key. He was too busy staring at her chest to really refuse, and he let her into the building. He even let her use his card to take the elevator up. On the sixth floor, she got off, leaving the boy stammering after her, but she was too focused on finding 612 to care.

She found it easily.

It didn't hurt that his name was on the door, along with some other one that was obviously his roommate, but who cared about that? The bigger thing here was that he was on the other side of that door, most likely lying on his bed, one arm behind his head, staring blankly up at the ceiling and brooding about how awful his attempt at a date was. She dropped her forehead against the door, making sure to be oh so quiet so as not to alert him to her presence, because how was she supposed to explain _this_?

She should go.

If she left right now, he would never have to know. He could go on with his life, his existence, and never be bothered by the fact that she had stood outside his door, pressing herself against the cold wood. He could go on never knowing about that little boy, and the way her stomach had twisted into knots at the sight of his shaggy head and sullen expression. He would never have to know how even _years_ of expensive therapy hadn't gotten him out from under her skin, hadn't removed his ever-constant presence from the back of her mind, hadn't stopped his calm, commanding voice from ringing through her head every time she tried to make a decision. She should just go before-

"Taylor?"

Apparently he wasn't in his room. She briefly considered pulling the brim of her hat low and breaking into confused Spanish, but he wasn't really that stupid. So she took a deep breath, pushed herself away from the door, and turned to face her demon.

"Ryan."

He looked confused, and not at all happy to see her, which didn't exactly bode well. It probably didn't help that she had on her stalking gear – giant hat, enormous shades, binoculars shoved roughly into her purse next to the book she pretended to read while watching him. He took a wary step forward, looking around self-consciously at the nearly deserted hall and lowering his voice so that only she could hear.

"What are you doing here?"

He was usually polite, so she guessed he hadn't _meant_ it to come out sounding as harsh as it did. Only extreme shock could make him forget his manners. She knew she should tell him the truth, that she missed him, that she couldn't get him out of her head.

"Oh, you know, I was visiting my mother, and happened to be in the area, and decided I'd drop by…"

_Way to lie_. And not just lie, but be completely obvious about it. Like he wouldn't remember that her mother lived in Newport, which, as it turned out, wasn't as close to Berkeley as she really wanted him to think right now. He might even remember that she _hated_ her mother, and would, under no circumstances, willingly come to visit her.

"Taylor, what are you doing here?"

Was he just going to keep repeating those lines? Cause if he was, this little play was going to get very boring, very quickly. He stepped toward her, and she backed up so fast she tripped over her own foot, back landing painfully against his door, the knob slamming into her side, taking her breath away. She knew it was an instinct for him to reach out and steady her – it had been an instinct, all those years ago, for him to reach out and try to grab her as she fell from the roof – but his hands on her arm, on her waist, did nothing to help her oxygen issue. She cursed her lack of grace, her intense fear of rejection that had caused her to try and run away, because she saw the metal key in his hand.

He'd just been moving forward to open his door.

Pushing the key into the lock, he opened it, pulling her in, locking it behind him again. She stood awkwardly in the middle of his room, hand pressed to her aching side, watching him turn the lock. When he turned to her, his face, his body, his voice radiated with exhaustion, and he repeated his question. Why was she here?

"I don't know."

And it was the truth. The boy – that little boy that made her heart wrench painfully – had been the impetus, but what was she doing here? What did she expect to happen? The truth was she didn't know, because she hadn't thought that far ahead. Her only thought had been to just _see_ him again, because – despite the pictures – he was fading from her mind. Not completely, not the look of him, but the rest of him – the parts that made him, _him_. The way he looked around nervously, the way he thrust his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders, the way he kept his eyes on the floor as he walked. She had been forgetting those little details about him, and it made her panic.

"I'm sorry."

Because she was. If this was even half as hard for him as it was for her, she was sorry. Because this hurt – seeing him again, touching him again. Dr. James could psycho-analyze her all she wanted, but she couldn't erase the memories his hands brought to the surface. And she couldn't stand the look in his eyes – the frustration, the exhaustion, the complete loss at what to do with the ex-girlfriend from hell who flew _twelve hours and six thousand miles_ to stalk him. So she walked to the built-in mirror on the wall of his dorm, pulling her shirt up slightly, turning sideways and twisting to see her side reflected in its surface. Already she could see a bruise forming, and it was quite fitting, she thought, having an outer wound to reflect the inner blow to her emotions. Great, now she was psycho-analyzing herself. She needed to get off that track, so she focused instead on the rising black and blue marring the otherwise pale smoothness of her skin.

He was a blur as he moved into the mirror's reflection.

His hands were on her waist and his mouth was on hers before she had a chance to react. It took her a few minutes to realize what was actually happening, that his hands had pushed her shirt up father, breaking from her mouth to pull it completely over her head, and then his lips were back on hers with a crushing force. It wasn't until his fingers had worked the button of her jeans loose and pulled down the zipper that her brain turned on, and she finally _got_ that she was here, and that this was _him,_ that he was tearing her clothes off, that they were alone in his dorm. By the time she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, he had pushed the pants off her hips, and she stumbled out of her shoes, stepping on the bottoms of her jeans to pull them completely off. His hands slid up to cup her ass, pulling her into him so she could feel the hard proof of his need trapped between their bodies.

He was wearing too many clothes.

She knew – somewhere in the back of her mind, that little part of her brain that still held some reason – that this was bad. Not _bad_, because this part of their relationship they did _very_ well, but bad because he'd said all of six words to her after she flew from Paris to stalk him around campus all day. Bad because this would just open up a Pandora's Box-worth of issues, but even though her brain was telling her to stop, her hands were gripping the bottom of his t-shirt, and he raised his arms as she dragged it up. They waited until the fabric forced their lips apart to break their kiss, and when the shirt was on the floor next to hers, he lowered his hands slowly to the waist of his jeans. She stood there, eyes caught on his, both their chests rising and falling with desperate breaths, as he popped the button of his jeans open, the metallic grating of the zipper being pulled down filling the room.

This was bad.

Somehow his gaze, dark and piercing and locked on hers, was making her brain shut down, her body flood with hot endorphins. She heard his pants hit the floor, but she couldn't look down, couldn't look away from his eyes. Usually she was good at reading him; back then all she had to do was look at him and _know_ exactly what he was feeling, what he was thinking before he even thought it. Right now she hoped she was reading him wrong, because the only emotions she could see were lust – not surprising given his actions -, confusion – also not surprising given _her_ actions -, but there was also fear and anger in the mix, and that was scary. She had forgotten how angry he could get.

She had forgotten how _hot_ he was when he was angry.

He stepped towards her, and she had to take a step back –the strength of his gaze was almost like a physical presence, forcing her back as he moved forward. So she stumbled back, all thoughts of Dr. James' encouraging speeches about being a strong, independent woman flying out of her head as he stared her down. Her knees hit the bed and his hands were on her waist before she had time to fall. They kept her upright - his hands - gripping her hips almost painfully, and he slowly brought his naked body to press against her. She broke the silence as a whimper tore from her throat at the feel of him.

It had been _two years_.

His head dipped down, bringing his lips near to hers, and he left them there, hovering but not actually touching. Which was really frustrating, because she was aching to kiss him again, but he seemed hell bent on making her suffer. She tried to lean up into him, but he pulled away just enough so that she could still feel his hot breath on her lips. All of her attempts at feminist strength left her, because she whimpered again, and this time it came out begging and desperate. She swore she saw a smirk pull at the corners of his mouth.

The bastard.

His right hand left her waist, trailing his fingers up her spine and stopping at the clasp of her bra, which he snapped off in one deft movement – she forgot he could do that. It seemed he couldn't break their staring contest either, because he didn't even glance down when the fabric was gone. Instead he placed his palm flat between her shoulder blades, pressing her forward and into his chest as his other hand slid down to pull at her panties. Her stomach was fluttering madly, making her heart beat wildly in her chest and her nerve endings crackle with electricity. And she was actually _shaking_ with anticipation as he pushed the little scrap of fabric down her legs.

_Way to be really needy_.

Seriously, therapy had done absolutely _nothing_ to break her of this incredibly unhealthy codependency thing she had with him. And the time apart hadn't done much either. If anything it had made her _more_ pathetically desperate. She remembered hearing once that being away from someone made you idealize them; made them more beautiful in your mind. Yeah, not so much. The pictures that she had of him – carefully pasted onto pages 23 through 57 of that little black book – did absolutely no justice to the real thing. And he'd grown since she last saw him – two years will do that to a person – and he looked… harder. Scruffier, _definitely_, and more haggard.

She wondered if _she_ did that to him.

It didn't matter anymore, because she was somehow on the bed, and he was on top of her, just goddamn _staring_ at her. He seemed determined to not touch her, but he finally broke eye contact with her, raking his eyes up and down her body as she lay below him. Warmth flooded her face, and she knew she was blushing furiously, but she wasn't sure _why_. It wasn't like he hadn't seen her naked before. But maybe it was because it had been a long time, and if _he_ had changed, there was a high probability that she had as well. What if she hadn't changed as favorably as he had?

Plus, no one had seen her naked in two years.

His eyes flicked back up to hers, and she let out a shaky sigh of relief at the heat in his stare, the way his tongue darted out to lick his lips. His head dipped back down, but he still didn't kiss her, and she wanted to kill him for being such an ass about this. That feeling lasted all of four seconds before he started to slowly move down her body, letting his hot breath ghost over her skin.

"Ryan…"

Her voice was a shaky whisper, pleading and desperate, and he paused to shoot her a smug look before finally placing a chaste kiss on her hipbone. It was so pathetic, the cry that came out of her, the amount of electricity that tore through her body with that simple touch. Then his hand slid up her thigh, hesitating a second before pushing one finger into her, and she couldn't handle this. It was too much – all of it was too much. Coming here, seeing him again, and now this?

She wasn't at all prepared for this.

But he was looking at her, eyes dark and glinting as he pressed his tongue to her, making her hips buck into his mouth. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a calm voice dimly wondered how she could have forgotten how he felt, how _this_ felt; she had spent the last two years with only her own hands and Mr. Happy to keep her company, and neither of those things came anywhere remotely near this. Then suddenly it was gone, and he was moving up her body, eyes locked on hers again as his arm slipped around her waist.

She knew what he wanted.

So she hooked her legs around him, choking out a cry as he pressed up against her, the tip of him sliding in, and she couldn't believe how much she _wanted_ this. So what if it was bad, so what if it caused a whole mess of problems? It didn't matter, because this was so _right_. And her mind would have continued to ramble off a list of reasons _why_ it was right, if he hadn't sheathed himself all the way, making her body arch and her mind go blank. She was overfilled with him; her body had almost forgotten how to handle this – the feeling of him pressing her into the mattress, his rough hands gripping her waist, the way he moved inside her.

She wanted to cry, because she had almost forgotten _him_.

He moved slowly, lazily, drawing out their reunion with almost painful languidness. He was driving her insane, and he seemed to know it, because he was giving her that look – the one she remembered from all those years ago when he used to tease her about whatever crazy thing she had said. And he wouldn't even kiss her, letting his mouth hover over hers for a few seconds before pulling away entirely to focus on her eyes again. She wished he would stop doing that – it was unnerving; she wished he would say something, or show some sign he felt anything other than the need to make her pay for stalking him. Because that's what he was doing, right? Making her suffer for being such an emotional wreck? She deserved it.

But she didn't deserve him.

She knew she didn't. He'd had so much trouble in his life; he didn't deserve to have her piled on top of that. She was a wreck; needy and desperate and clingy. She was an awful person for doing this – for coming back into his life and turning it upside down. Wanting to apologize, she opened her mouth – which seemed to be the impetus for his self-control to break, because he crushed his mouth to hers, hips thrusting into her wildly. His tongue was hot and dominating in her mouth, his moans of excitement muffled against her lips. She felt the heat wash through her body, pulsing from her head to her toes, rushing back to collect in her belly before she let go, digging her nails into his back as she rode the waves of her orgasm. Which set him off, and he gave one last heavy thrust before releasing himself into her.

_Oh God._

When she came down, his head was dropped to her shoulder, breath coming out in heavy gasps, his flushed body collapsed completely onto her. Her entire body was on fire, still tingling, nerve endings fried. He gave a groan, pulling out of her and rolling off to the side, onto his back, where he stared up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling in an uneasy rhythm. Looking at him, she couldn't help but want to cry, because she knew this had been the worst thing possible. She wanted – she _needed_ – to get over him, and sex wasn't exactly the best way to go about that. She wasn't looking forward to her next appointment with Dr. James, where she would have to tell the woman about this, about her relapse.

Because that's what he was – an addiction.

She was a junkie for him, and she'd been living off a diluted mix of blurry photos and old voicemails for two years. But this… she'd just taken a hit of the good stuff – the pure, uncut _him_. She should go, before she got too high, too drunk off of just _looking_ at him, just being next to him. She should go, while she still had any willpower, while she still had control of her brain. It would be hard, yes, but she'd done it once – walked away from him. Well, she hadn't so much walked away as he had pushed her away, but it was the same principle. She'd had to leave him, and she'd never gotten over him.

"Go to sleep, Taylor."

His voice was heavy and low; he mumbled it as he pulled her against him, and she immediately felt herself relax. His secure arm around her waist, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the confident way he pulled her into him melted away all of her fears. They would figure this out later – they would have to, because she was falling asleep and very much unwilling to break the peaceful silence. She had forgotten how good he was at dispelling her insecurities, at making her feel safe and warm and protected and _sane_. She knew this was where she belonged, because she was a better person with him - the kind of person she had strived for two years to regain. So yes, they would figure this out later, and she was determined to make this work, because he calmed her mind. He made all those loose ends in her brain fuse back together into a cohesive whole. He was just what she needed.

Plus, it was cheaper than therapy.

_

* * *

Review!_


	2. This One's For Me

_So I've had this on the backburner for quite some time now, and since I'm done all of my big stories, I figured why not work on this? Most of the requests I got for the sequel were for it to be from Ryan's POV, so here it is. Although it does bother my OCD a little that Ryan has nothing to do with therapy, and therefore doesn't fit the title, but whatever._

_By the way, this wasn't written to 'Cheaper Than Therapy'. It was written to 'Tongue' by Bell X1 off the album 'Music in Mouth'._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

What had he done?

It was the worst thing he could've done; he was such an ass. Seriously, _what had he done_? He thought he had better restraint than that, better control over his emotions, better control over his body. But something had gone off in his head, some little switch that let his brain continue to function, but cut off all the signals it sent to the rest of him.

Because it was _her_.

She'd always done that to him; made him lose control, made his body go into overdrive. He thought he had gotten it under control, these two years she'd been away. He thought he had regained his emotionless, brooding self – the person he had always been before her. He thought he was back to normal, but then he'd seen her and all his hard work had flown right out the window. She'd just been standing there, leaning into his door and looking like she was about to cry. His first reaction had been shock and confusion, because why wasn't she in Paris? Then had come relief, rushing up through his chest, nearly choking him in its unfiltered strength. But as with all things in his life, the good part didn't last long, because doubt and fear were right behind; _why was she here? Was something wrong?_ Then she'd started making excuses – something about seeing her mother, like he bought that – and he'd realized she wasn't here for any reason other than because she was insane. That's when the anger started. _Why was she fucking here?_ Why was she doing this? Making him feel this rush of emotions he had kept at bay for two years, making his heart clutch painfully in his chest.

That's when the lust kicked in.

He was such an ass. His mind had told him – over and over again, running on repeat in his head – that it was bad. But he'd done it anyway – the sadistic streak in him teasing the hell out of her for confusing him so much. That was until that hot little mouth had opened, and he'd totally lost it. He'd told her afterwards to go to sleep, because even though he was worn out, he couldn't exactly fall asleep with her tossing and turning and muttering things to herself. So she'd buried herself into his chest, and he'd woken up three hours and one missed physics class later.

He was such an ass.

Because he'd done that – slept with her even though he had no idea what the hell he was supposed to do with her now. But more than that, he was an ass because he was here. He wasn't in his bed, watching her sleep. He wasn't in his room, pacing back and forth.

He was in a diner.

He swallowed thickly around the burger in his mouth, unable to taste it. He put the rim of the cup to his lips, letting the cold liquid fill his throat, but it did nothing to quench the dryness in his mouth. He was such an ass, because he'd left her. He hadn't even woken her up when he'd gone. His eyes had opened, and he'd panicked. Luckily, she was a heavy sleeper, and he'd been able to slip out of bed, get dressed, and leave the room. He'd wandered around campus for a while, finally ending up here, where he'd ordered his regular. But even the familiarity of the act didn't help his mood, because guilt was making everything taste dry and ashen.

He should go back.

But he couldn't. He couldn't make himself get out of the booth and go back, because what if she was awake? He could just picture the uncensored hurt on her face – that he'd left, that he'd left her _alone_, in his dorm, after he'd pretty much suggested that everything would be ok. And he couldn't make himself go back, because what if she was still asleep? Then she would wake up with him next to her, and she would look at him hopefully, those eyes going wide, shining at him with that openly honest way she had. That might even be worse. At least if she was already awake, he wouldn't have to watch the understanding take over her face – the knowledge creep up on her that, no, he wasn't taking her back.

Because he wasn't.

How could he? Nothing had changed. She was still going to school over there, and he was here. They were still six thousand miles apart, and he was still an emotionally unavailable loner. She deserved someone better than him – someone who could tell her how he felt, who could be there for her. All he could do was take his clothes off and push her down onto the mattress.

She hadn't been with anyone since him.

He could see it in the way she looked at him nervously, the way she held her breath as he looked her over. He could tell because she was so _tight_. It gave him a thrill, to know no other guy had been with her, but it also made it worse. Much, much worse, because she'd been so unsure of herself. If she'd gone at it full force like he remembered, he wouldn't feel half as guilty.

He should go back.

So he motioned at the waitress, ordering a chicken sandwich and a diet Coke to go, because he remembered – somewhat inanely – that she was fond of chicken. He paid for the food and left the diner, his feet heavy and dragging as he forced his way back to his dorm. The wait on the ride up was unbearable, guilt and panic rising as the elevator did. Then there was a ding, which made his heart jump wildly, and the metal doors opened into the familiar sight of his hallway. It seemed to stretch on forever as he walked to his door, sliding the key inside the lock and twisting – the loud click making him wince.

She was awake.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, head bowed and eyes on the floor, she looked beautiful and innocent, and he couldn't help but remember that he had ruined her. He'd taken advantage of her, because she really was – despite all of her experience – an innocent little girl who let herself get swept up in anyone that showed any kindness to her. She looked up at him as he walked in, expression serenely mournful, eyes locking on his.

At least she wasn't crying.

He held up the plastic bag of food as an explanation for his absence, but she met his gaze squarely, letting him know that she didn't for a second believe his excuse. She _knew_ that he'd panicked, that he'd left – because it was _him_.

How did she always know?

She was so good at reading him, and it wasn't fair, because he could _never_ tell what she was thinking. But he was an ass, so instead of offering a better explanation – anything would have worked, really – he held out the bag to her, which she wearily accepted, opening it up and removing the contents. He watched her eat, silently, her eyes back on the floor because she couldn't stand to look at him.

He was such an ass.

He sat next to her on the bed, resting his elbows on his knees as she finished her lunch – _dinner?_ A glance at the clock showed him that yes, it was most likely dinner, and a glance out the window showed the fading sunlight. They sat in silence, each passing moment making the sky darker – making the prospect of talking more unbearable. He knew it would have to be him that spoke first, because she may be pushy and talkative, but not where it counted. So he swallowed the lump of fear in his throat, and opened his mouth.

"Look, Taylor…"

But he couldn't get the words out, because she was looking at him with guarded eyes and a resolute set to her mouth. She knew what was coming – his rejection – and she was ready to face it. Which should have made it easier, but somehow made it worse.

It was worse, because he wished she expected more of him.

She was so good at reading him; if she _expected_ him to be a better person, then it would be because he _was_ a better person. But the fact that she _didn't_ expect it from him meant that he truly was awful.

"I'm sorry about… what happened, but nothing's changed…"

This wasn't a question of their relationship – the two of them together. Because he thought they were pretty damn good together. He calmed her down, and she made him feel. It was a question of the distance. He sucked at relationships in general, how was he supposed to manage one from six thousand miles away? His two best friends had barely survived a five-month separation – and they were on the same continent. It didn't matter that she made him feel. It didn't matter that he still loved her.

"This just isn't going to work out…"

She didn't cry, for which he was eternally thankful. He couldn't handle crying girls – it made him feel guilty, and he always gave in to whatever they wanted. She knew that, and he always loved that she never used it against him. She didn't cry, but she _did_ look at him with disappointment – maybe she _had_ expected more? Or maybe she had just been naively hopeful that he would've changed these past two years.

"No."

Her response took him by surprise, and he blinked at her. '_No'_? What did she mean, '_no_'? '_No'_, as in '_no, this isn't going to work'_, or '_no'_, as in '_no, I'm not letting this go that easily'?_ His logical mind hoped it was the first one, hoped for a clean break – _like he could ever have one of those_. But something in him clung desperately to the second, because he was sure that there was no one else in the world like her. So his heart leapt wildly when she leant forward, placing her palms on either side of his face and pressing her lips gently to his.

Bad idea.

Did she know what she did to him? What one little touch – one little kiss – could do? That thing in his head clicked, and his body switched to autopilot. So even though his head was screaming at him to break away, he couldn't make the rest of him respond.

It probably didn't help that she was getting on top of him.

How did she do that? Scramble his brain so much that he didn't even notice when she moved, straddling his waist, until it was too late to stop her? The rational part of his brain told him it _wasn't_ too late to stop this. It wasn't too late to remove his lips from hers, to lift her off of him. But she was still giving him chaste kisses, running her hands gently down his chest, between their bodies to pull at his belt.

He missed those hands.

She pulled her mouth away from his and brushed her fingers down his jaw with a smile. When she was angry or upset or afraid, she would use her plastic smile – the one she had hidden behind all through high school. When she was feeling playful, teasing the hell out of him, she would give her sultry smile – the one she reserved especially for him. But right now her smile was warm – the one she used when she was calming him down, reassuring him.

"Ryan, I love you."

Well, shit. He wished she hadn't said that, and he told himself that if her hands weren't currently inside his pants, he'd put a stop to this. But they were – her tiny, magic hands – stroking him, rendering him completely incapable of speech. He swallowed hard, shaking his head slowly, trying to signal silently that they shouldn't be doing this. All of which she saw, but apparently she wasn't listening to him today.

She always was persistent.

His body was moving, completely ignoring his brain, lifting his arms above his head as she pulled his shirt up and off and tossing it to the floor. She planted soft kisses down his chest, making his heart leap around wildly and the muscles in his stomach flutter. His hands, moving of their own accord, ignoring his brain completely, slid her shirt up, keeping his hands fully on her skin, not wanting to waste a minute of touching her.

Because she was his.

The realization hit him, making him freeze, and she took no notice because she was pulling off her pants – which he just realized now were _his_ pants that she'd borrowed. And then she settled back on him, taking him in her hand and lowering herself onto him, which made his breath catch in his throat. She was amazing, did she know that? He wrapped his arms around her, letting his head drop onto her shoulder, closing his eyes tightly to regain the control she seemed to take away.

"Ryan."

Her voice – shaky and afraid and whispered in his ear – made him pull back, and he felt his heart squeeze painfully. He was such an ass, because she was so afraid. Whatever confidence she'd had – kissing him, shutting down his brain – was gone, replaced by the little girl he'd seen just a few hours ago, which scared him. He wanted _his_ girl back, the one who had been confident and in control. He wanted her back, because this one scared him, because _he_ had made her like this.

Never again.

He kissed her, as slowly and confidently as he could, sliding his hands to her waist to lift her up, letting her settle back down on him with a gasp. The rhythm continued, up and down, slowly, until her body remembered the motions. He felt her movements grow more confident, more sure, rocking her hips slowly against his, making him tense, making him shake. Her hand on his jaw made him open his eyes, and she smiled – that same, reassuring smile – and she leaned forward to capture his lips again.

He didn't know how to handle this.

The first time had been slow because he'd wanted to punish her for coming here and then fast because she'd made him snap. But this was different, because she was silent, and he was silent, and he couldn't quite put into words the _feeling_ in the air. It choked him – the feeling. It was thick and heavy and it settled in his lungs, making him gasp for breath as she rocked against him. He didn't know how to handle this, because he felt like he was going to explode.

And not in the good way.

Well, of course he was about to explode in _that_ way, because she was so beautiful, and she was hot and tight and slick around him, and the way she was looking at him – eyes wide as she remembered what this was like – it all made him want to explode. But there was something else – the electricity rolling over his skin, the heaviness in his lungs that soaked through the rest of him, making him… making him what?

Making him _feel_.

Huh. Apart from the sudden rush when he'd found her outside his door and the guilt after their little tryst, he hadn't actually _felt_ anything for two years. Which was normal, really, because he'd never been one to feel – at least not to the horrifying extent he had with her.

"Ryan."

His name on her lips – whispered desperately – her flushed face, the way she tightened around him, made him lose it. Although maybe that was bad wording, because she'd _already_ made him lose it, but the wording didn't matter anymore, because he wrapped his arms around her lithe little body and let his head drop to her shoulder as he let go.

He let go.

For once in his life, he just _let go_. Let his body do whatever the hell it wanted, let his head wander wherever the hell it wanted, let his mouth say whatever the hell it wanted. For once in his life he didn't have complete control over the situation – over himself – and it terrified him.

Because it felt amazing.

She was kissing him and he wasn't stopping her. His brain wasn't even telling him to stop her, because why should he have to suffer? So what if it would be hard, so what if she deserved more? Obviously she wanted him – for whatever insane reason – and didn't he want her to be happy? He lifted his head from her shoulder to meet her gaze – to meet the glazed expression on her face.

"Are you happy? With me?"

Her eyes cleared of their haze, focusing on his face, and she stayed silent. He told himself not to get his hopes up. He told himself not to panic, but it was too late. She'd already broken him, she'd already made him _feel_ again. So it was too late, because the panic and the fear and the overwhelming pain was already there, choking him, making his muscles go tight and his head start to pound. He felt his heart stop beating when she got off him, grabbing for his t-shirt and pulling it over her head.

Is this what dying felt like?

Why was she doing this? Why had she come here, come to see him, dangle the hope of _them_ in his face, and then take it away? Had she come here to use him? To get off and then go home? He couldn't handle this. How could he have been so stupid? Why would she ever want to be with _him_? A thump and the weight of something on the bed next to him brought him out of his daze. It was a notebook, small and black and she looked half afraid, half determined.

"We're different people, Ryan."

Oh God. She was right, they _were_ different, but it still hurt. She wasn't the same hopeful nineteen year old that had clung to him – he'd made sure of that. No, now she was nearing twenty-one and her dreams and her views on love had been broken. Because of him.

"I was happy with you before, but we've both changed."

This was punishment. He'd punished her physically – making her beg and plead. But she was punishing him emotionally, right? And she should. She was always the one in the relationship that ended up getting hurt. Chrismukkah, her birthday, their multiple breakups. Yes, it had hurt him too, but she always _felt_ more than him.

"All I know is I'm not happy now."

He waited for the inevitable, but it never came. She motioned at the book, and he picked it up, feeling the worn cover, seeing the beat up pages. It wasn't like her to have something this… used. Everything she had was pristine, and if it wasn't she replaced it. So why this little book? What could possibly be in here that made her ignore her compulsive need for perfection? He opened the notebook.

Him.

She was putting her clothes on rapidly, but he couldn't look away from the thing in his hands. Page one, his name. Page two, his school schedule. And not just the current one – he could see the faded marks of his previous schedules behind the writing. Where he ate lunch, what he ate, who his friends were, girls he'd dated, his dorm building, his classroom building, his dorm room number, the classroom numbers, the teachers. Books he'd read, CD's he'd bought, movies he'd liked – some with little checks next to them, as if to say _checked it out_. She was gathering her shoes and trying to put them on, but he couldn't stop his hand from shakily turning the pages.

Pictures.

Dozens of them, some from two years ago, some more recent, all of him. How long had she been stalking him? There was no way she could've taken these pictures, because there was no way she could've been there for some of them.

His brother.

His brother had been sending her pictures, updating her on everything he did. Had she asked him to, or was it an unconscious thing? Did his brother want them to get back together? He looked up at her, standing near the door, keeping her eyes firmly focused on the wood. When he called her name she looked at him, face red but jaw clenched. She was embarrassed, but not ashamed. She knew what she'd been doing; she'd made the decision to do this, even if she knew it was crazy.

_This_ was his girl.

This was the girl who'd stalked him in a groundhog costume, who made him scrapbooks for no reason, who took his picture with her cell phone when he wasn't paying attention, who'd _talked_ her way into his life. Even his brother didn't have that honor – they'd been forced on each other the day he moved in. She was the only one who he'd _tried_ to push away. She was the only one to force her way through just because she was damn stubborn.

And he loved her for it.

Because he'd never felt so _wanted_ as he did with her. No one in his life had ever made such an effort to be with him. No one had ever fought so hard for him. Even his family – who'd taken him in and saved him – hadn't put themselves out there like she did. It made him feel wanted and desired and valid. Because it wasn't just circumstances throwing them together, it was her persistence and her absolute certainty that they belonged together. Hell, she'd flown six thousand miles just to see him.

"So what do we do now?"

She seemed startled at his words, like she hadn't been expecting them. Like she'd been expecting him to call her insane, to call the police and turn her in. Which, logically, he probably should, because this little thing she had for him was kind of scary. She shouldn't be this attached – it wasn't healthy. He chose to ignore the fact that _he_ was just as obsessed, just not in such an obvious way.

He was obsessed because she haunted him.

She was there when he woke up, guiding him through his day. She was there when he was bored, making him smile with her rambling comments and brilliant smile. She was there when he closed his eyes, becoming more solid as he concentrated, stepping into his arms. She was there when he went out with other girls, sitting next to them and quirking her eyebrow at him as if to say '_really'?_

He always broke it off with those girls, because _really_?

He knew none of those girls would compare to her. Usually it was the girl that asked him out, but sometimes he would initiate it. And it was always because of something small, like the girl would sweep her bangs aside in just the right way, or she would clap her hands when she was happy, or she would raise her hand in class at every question. He would ask girls out based on what qualities they had in common with _her_.

"France is cold."

What? France is cold? So what if France is cold, how does that solve their problem? But when he looked up at her, he saw it in her eyes. Maybe he _could_ read her, because right now he knew exactly what she was thinking. France is cold. California is hot. And it was nearing the end of the semester, only two months away. They'd lasted two years, would two more months hurt? She would come home for the summer.

And then she would transfer here.

There it was again – the desperately rising hope that made his chest tighten painfully and his throat close up. He couldn't say anything, but she was waiting – with eyes wide and fingers picking at her nails. She was waiting for him to say something – _anything_ – and he couldn't even manage that.

He wasn't a talker.

He surged off the bed - only vaguely aware that he was naked – and caught her up in his arms. She let out a surprised gasp, and he felt her relax, slowly, into him. He'd never really felt like this before – this absolute, uncertain, wildly hopeful future. Before, back when they first got together, their relationship always had an expiration date. But now? If she was coming here, there'd be no end to rely on. He'd have to commit, because he couldn't ask her to change schools, to pack up and trek back here, just to realize he didn't want her. So did he want her? She pulled back – maybe she sensed something wrong? – and he saw the question in her eyes. Did he want her?

He smiled.

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End.

_Review._


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